


Everywhere I Look I Fall

by sarahyyy



Series: MasterChef AU [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Fights, M/M, MasterChef AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know how they say chefs who marry each other shouldn’t work in the same kitchen?” Grantaire doesn’t wait for Enjolras to answer. “I guess there was some truth to it after all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everywhere I Look I Fall

**Author's Note:**

> The day count starts the day Enjolras and Grantaire's restaurant opens. :)

**(DAY ONE)**

The first ticket comes through to the kitchen, and everyone takes a second to cheer and applaud. Enjolras grins at them, only for a moment, and only because Grantaire has barrelled into him, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his jaw, before Enjolras tells everyone to get to work. 

The tickets start trickling in fast after that, and Enjolras is _on fire_. He’s always loved this, the heat of the kitchen, the buzz of everyone moving around him, the spices and the aromas coming out from all the stations. It’s better now, because this is _his_ kitchen, in _his_ restaurant. 

“Do you need any help, Chef?” 

Enjolras would say no, because they’ve only just started dinner service and it’s not particularly busy yet, but it’s Grantaire asking, and the start of dinner service is probably the only time Enjolras is going to be able to work with Grantaire before he has to start on all the desserts. 

“Yes,” he says decisively. “Can you start on the-”

He doesn’t even know why he thought he would have to tell Grantaire, because they work together flawlessly in the kitchen, and as soon as Enjolras had said yes, Grantaire had already started to bring a new pan up to heat. Enjolras’ grin grows. 

“I really fucking love cooking with you,” he tells Grantaire, and Grantaire turns over to flash him a huge smile and turns back to his pan. 

“I know,” Grantaire says. And then, “Watch your pan, Chef.” 

“The ravioli is fine,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes, but Grantaire is still grinning, like he knows even without having to look up that he’s made Enjolras look. “Watch the heat on yours, Chef.”

Grantaire just laughs. 

—

“Three hundred tables,” Enjolras says, and huffs out a breathless laugh. “Oh God, R, we served _three hundred tables_ tonight.”

“I know,” Grantaire says, and then kisses Enjolras, fingers digging into his arms tightly before they move to the buttons on Enjolras’ chef jacket, undoing them quickly. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Christ, I love you so much. Watching you work is- Fuck, _fuck_ , why won’t this stupid button-”

Enjolras laughs, and covers Grantaire’s hands with his. “R, we’re still in the kitchen.”

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire says, looking up at Enjolras from under thick, thick eyelashes. “That’s kind of exactly the point.”

Enjolras groans, and kisses Grantaire. He tugs Grantaire’s hands away from his jacket and takes over undoing his own buttons. “We’re going to have to sanitise so many things,” he tells Grantaire, shrugging the jacket off and letting it fall to the ground carelessly.

“Worth it,” Grantaire tells him, and drops to his knees in front of Enjolras. 

—

**(DAY FOUR)**

“Can someone pass me-”

Grantaire presses a clean spatula to Enjolras’ outstretched hand on his way back to his station even before Enjolras finishes his sentence, and Enjolras thinks, not for the first time, of how lucky he is to have Grantaire around. 

Enjolras wants to pull him in by the arm, wants to hold Grantaire close to him, wants to kiss him so much, but his risotto needs stirring, and there are seven more tickets on the dock and he doesn’t have the time. He settles for calling out, “I love you!” 

The line chefs —a cheeky bunch of young but competent aspiring chefs— all call out in unison, “Love you too, Chef!”

Grantaire laughs. 

—

**(DAY EIGHT)**

“I am so tired,” Enjolras groans. “It’s only been a week and I never want to step into a kitchen ever again. Why did we decide to open a restaurant? Why did we decide to be chefs?”

Grantaire snorts and shoves at Enjolras so he isn’t lying horizontally across the bed. “You love it,” he says. 

“I don’t,” Enjolras says, and throws an arm over Grantaire, pulling him closer. “I feel like we haven’t had much time together recently.”

“That’s because we haven’t,” Grantaire says with a snort. “We spend most of our time in the restaurant, and we work at opposite ends of the kitchen.”

Enjolras turns his head, and nuzzles at Grantaire’s neck. “Why did you have to be a dessert chef?” 

Grantaire laughs. “This dessert chef helped you win the MasterChef title,” he tells Enjolras. “Respect the desserts.”

“I do,” Enjolras says. “I just…would prefer if you weren’t all the way across the kitchen from me. I think I liked it a lot better when we were sharing a cooking bench.”

Grantaire presses a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, and Enjolras can feel his lips stretch into a smile. “Are you thinking about promoting me to be your sous chef?”

Enjolras perks up; he hadn’t really thought about it before, but the idea sounds perfect. “Would you consider it?”

“Chicken, you know my heart is in desserts,” Grantaire says with a rueful smile.

Enjolras sighs and tightens his grip around Grantaire’s waist. “I know,” he tells Grantaire. “And you’re amazing at them. Don’t ever let me forget that.”

“I would never,” Grantaire tells him and tips his head up for a kiss. 

“I am so tired,” Enjolras repeats, sighing into Grantaire’s mouth. “I am so tired and I miss you.”

Grantaire strokes his thumb over the curve of Enjolras’ cheek, kisses him there softly. “Go to sleep, Chicken. I love you.”

“Love you more,” Enjolras mumbles, and drifts off to sleep to the feeling of Grantaire rubbing calming circles on his lower back. 

—

 **(DAY TWENTY)**

“…whatever it is the rising Chef Enjolras has planned for us next, we cannot wait,” Maria, his sauté chef finishes, grinning.

Enjolras curves his lips up in a soft, satisfied smile. “Alright, everyone, have the rest of the day off,” he says, and they cheer a little. “I’ll see you all tomorrow bright and early.”

He knocks his shoulder against Grantaire’s the moment everyone else clears out of the kitchen. “Did you hear that?”

Grantaire barks out a laugh. “I was literally standing right next to you the entire time,” he tells Enjolras, and curls his arm around Enjolras’ waist, fingers tapping lightly at his hips. “I’m really proud of you, you know that, right?” 

“It’s not just me,” Enjolras is quick to say, because while his name was the only one singled out, the review had mentioned that Enjolras had a strong team working in the kitchen too. “It’s everyone else too. They made a note of your pistachio mousse.”

“They did,” Grantaire says lightly, and Enjolras wants to say something about how his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s distracted by Grantaire’s lips on his, coaxing him into a deep kiss.

—

**(DAY THIRTY-SIX)**

Grantaire is in the kitchen making breakfast when Enjolras wakes up. 

“Good morning,” he says and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s bare shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Grantaire says back. 

There’s something in his voice that sounds off, but Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s the haze of sleepiness still surrounding him talking, so he settles down on one of the stools at the island and downs his first cup of coffee. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks, setting down his coffee mug. Grantaire still has his back facing Enjolras, working on the eggs, but Enjolras knows Grantaire well enough by now to recognise the slight tension in his back. 

“Everything is fine,” Grantaire says, and that’s a lie. 

He waits until Grantaire finishes scrambling and plating the eggs and joins him at the table before he says, “Something is clearly wrong. You seem troubled. What’s wrong?”

Grantaire sighs. “Can we not talk about this?” 

“R-”

Grantaire sets his fork down with a clang. “I know you’re trying to show concern, and it means the world to me that you are, but for once, can you listen to me and trust me when I tell you that nothing is wrong?” He bites out a curse the moment the words are out of his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he tells Enjolras. “I’m just- Tired, I think. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Enjolras frowns and reaches across the table to take Grantaire’s hand in his. “Do you want to take tonight off?” he asks. “We can manage without you for a day.”

Grantaire laughs; there is something very wrong with the way it sounds, and Enjolras doesn’t know what is going on. 

“It’s alright, I don’t need the time off,” he tells Enjolras, squeezing his hand a little before dropping it in favour of picking up his fork again. He looks down at his plate of breakfast, away from Enjolras’ gaze. “I don’t do much in the kitchen anyway. It’s all easy work.”

There is something Grantaire is trying to tell him, in his own way, without actually having to say the words. Enjolras should know what it is Grantaire is trying to tell him, should be able to find clues to what Grantaire is trying to tell him from their interactions every day, but he doesn’t and it unnerves him a little that he doesn’t.

“Grantaire-”

“Eat your breakfast, Chicken,” Grantaire says and kicks Enjolras lightly under the table. It’s a clear sign that the conversation is over.

Enjolras picks up his fork, and makes plans in his head to pay more attention to Grantaire.

—

**(DAY THIRTY-SEVEN)**

The bedroom door closes behind Grantaire and Enjolras stares at it in horror, tears prickling in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he says, because they were yelling at each other, in the way that they had never done, not even when their relationship was at its lowest point back on MasterChef, because Grantaire was definitely crying when he said _I’ll take the couch tonight_ and left the room, because there is something horribly wrong going on between them and he still doesn’t know what it is.

He pads out of the room after Grantaire. 

Grantaire is lying on his side on the couch. His eyes are closed, his arms are pulled in tightly around himself, and his breathes are deep and harsh. 

Enjolras’ chest aches just looking at him.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says tentatively. “R, please come back to bed? I didn’t mean to- I just want to know what’s going on. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire doesn’t reply.

—

**(DAY FORTY)**

“Has anyone seen Grantaire?” Enjolras asks the moment he steps into the kitchen. All his line chefs are there already, prepping for dinner service, and they all look up in unison to say no; he’s hired a good team. “What’s on the dessert menu tonight?”

“Chef?” his grill chef asks. 

“Someone has to take over his station. Grantaire might not be coming in tonight,” Enjolras says, and tries to keep the frustration out of his voice. It’s been a long time since they had their last fight, and this one ended with Grantaire storming out of the apartment after a three day stalemate where Grantaire refused to sleep in their bed. “We need to streamline the dessert menu.”

The door to the kitchen flies open, and then Grantaire is striding in. He still looks livid, the same way he was looking back in the apartment, before he left.

“No-one is bloody streamlining my dessert menu,” he bites out. “It already only consists of eight fucking items. How many more items are you going to take out of it?” He doesn’t pause to look at Enjolras as he speaks, just stalks over to his station and starts washing his hands. “I get that people come here for you and your fucking fancy pastas,” Grantaire continues, and Enjolras nods when one of the line chefs asks non-verbally for permission to leave the kitchen, “but if you’re going to fucking keep a dessert chef around, you’re going to have to use me somehow.”

Enjolras waits until everyone else has cleared out of the kitchen before he speaks. “We talked about not bringing our fights into work,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire spares only a moment to look up at him, glaring. 

“Yes, well, we spend eighty percent of our time here,” Grantaire says. “Where else could we fight? At home? There isn’t nearly enough time to even scratch the surface of it.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you would just tell me why you’re so fucking angry at me,” Enjolras snaps. “I can’t fix this if I don’t know what is wrong.”

“For starters, you can stop assuming that there’s something wrong all the fucking time,” Grantaire shoots back. “Nothing is wrong. I’ve only said that a few dozen times this week. Stop pushing the subject.” He turns away from Enjolras to angrily knead at his pastry dough.

Enjolras swallows; he hates this, hates when they’re fighting, hates that frown on Grantaire’s face, hates that they’re yelling at each other, and that they’re doing it so often these days. 

“I don’t want to fight,” he tells Grantaire quietly. 

Grantaire sighs and his shoulders sag. Enjolras walks up to him, presses himself against Grantaire’s back and clutches at him tightly. 

“I hate it when we fight,” Enjolras says. “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, but he sets the dough down and clenches his fists. 

“You’ve been upset, and you’re not the kind of person who gets upset for no reason, and I’m worried, okay?” He lets out a slow breath. “I love you. I don’t like seeing you upset, and if there’s anything I can do to make you less upset, I’ll try. But I have to know what’s wrong.”

Grantaire tenses against him, and then relaxes again the next breath. “Chicken,” he says, and he sounds sad.

“R, talk to me,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire sighs. “Nothing is wrong,” he repeats after a long pause.

Enjolras wants to call him out on it, wants to prod and press and push till he gets an idea of what’s going on with Grantaire, wants to spin Grantaire around and shake him and make him talk, but he doesn’t. “Will you tell me if something is?” he settles for asking.

Grantaire presses his flour-covered hand over Enjolras’. “Yeah, I will.”

—

**(DAY FIFTY-ONE)**

“Oh, R,” Enjolras says, when Grantaire stumbles into bed drunk, back from his night out with Joly and Bossuet. He knows that they’re drinking buddies, knows that they like to occasionally go out together and get absolutely smashed, and Enjolras doesn’t normally have a problem with it. Except Grantaire is drunker than Enjolras has ever seen him been in all the time they’ve been together, and he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that this is happening right now when things are tense between them. He has a pretty good feeling that he’s the reason Grantaire over-imbibed tonight. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

Grantaire makes an unhappy noise low in his throat. “I love you, Chicken,” he slurs. 

Enjolras clenches his jaw and fights the prickle of tears he can feel in his eyes. _Something is wrong._ “I love you too, R, so much,” he says and presses his lips to Grantaire’s hairline. 

“I know you do,” Grantaire says and curls up into Enjolras’ arms. “I know you love me so much and I love you so much too and that’s why- _That’s why_.”

Enjolras pushes Grantaire’s hair out of his face, combs his fingers through Grantaire’s messy hair softly when Grantaire lets out a contented sigh. “What are you talking about, love?”

“That’s the problem,” Grantaire mumbles sleepily. “I love you more than anything in the world. That’s the problem.”

He dozes off, leaving Enjolras with even more questions than answers.

—

**(DAY FIFTY-THREE)**

The marriage counselling pamphlet Enjolras leaves on the coffee table in the living room for Grantaire is in the trashcan when Enjolras wakes up. 

Grantaire isn’t in the apartment. 

—

**(DAY SIXTY-EIGHT)**

“I did an interview with Saveur yesterday morning,” Enjolras says over lunch one day. 

“Oh?” Grantaire asks. He’s pushing his food around the plate, not really eating, and Enjolras fights down the pang in his chest, because this isn’t what Grantaire is like when they’re having lunch with the rest of the kitchen staff, as they’ve begun to do with increasing frequency. “What for?”

Enjolras takes a sip of his water. “They’re naming me Rising Star Chef of the year.”

Grantaire smiles at him, and it’s one of the more genuine smiles he’s directed at Enjolras for the last couple of weeks. “That’s fantastic, Chicken. You deserve it.”

“They want to come over to take a few photos later tonight,” Enjolras tells him, returning Grantaire’s smile. “They’re also asking if you’ll be okay with talking to them a little. They’re trying to get some insight as to what I’m like outside the kitchen.”

“Bossy, stubborn as fuck,” Grantaire says, ticking the items off his fingers, “can’t sing, has horrible taste in music, talks in his sleep sometimes… Are those the kind of things you are okay with me saying?”

Enjolras can’t bring himself to roll his eyes, can’t bring himself to feel anything but relief because this feels almost normal. “If it makes you happy,” he says. 

Grantaire smiles. “I’ll also remember to mention that you love your husband very much so that we don’t get groupies coming to the restaurant again.”

“Say that first,” Enjolras says. “That’s sort of the important defining characteristic they’re looking for.”

“I love you, you know?” Grantaire says quietly, but his smile is starting to slip off his face slowly. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire shakes his head. 

“Don’t say anything else,” his voice is pleading, and Enjolras wants to scream, wants to beg Grantaire to talk to him, “just say it back.”

“I love you,” Enjolras says, and feels a sinking sort of sensation when Grantaire just goes back to quietly eating his food again.

—

**(DAY EIGHTY-TWO)**

“Claquesous offered me a job,” Grantaire blurts out in the middle of one of their fights, eyes widening the moment the words escape him. He drops down on the couch and pointedly doesn’t look at Enjolras. “I said I would think about it.” 

Enjolras goes very still. “You said what?” he asks, panic in his voice. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he knew, he _knew_ something was wrong, but he never would’ve imagined this. “Why would you say that?”

Grantaire meets his eyes slowly, and he looks sad, looks disappointed, as if he’d expected Enjolras to react otherwise, as if Enjolras could’ve had any other kind of reaction. “Because I would think about it. I _am_ thinking about it,” he tells Enjolras.

Enjolras’ chest goes tight. “Patron-Minette is at the other end of the country,” he says quietly. 

“I know,” Grantaire says. “It’s a good offer.”

“You have a job here,” Enjolras snaps, and it proves to be the wrong thing to say, because Grantaire gets angry when he gets defensive, and this isn’t the situation for anger.

“I have a _business_ here,” Grantaire says, and oh, Enjolras has this all wrong; Grantaire is not angry, he’s _sad_ , and fuck if that isn’t worse. “This is _our_ restaurant, but you know what? Your phrasing was more accurate. I’m not a partner in this, not really. I work _for_ you.”

Enjolras is horrified. “That’s not-” he tries to say. “That’s not how it is.”

“Is it not?” Grantaire asks. “Because that’s what it feels like most of the time.” He laughs, a bitter, mirthless sound. “You know how they say chefs who marry each other shouldn’t work in the same kitchen?” 

Enjolras knows. Grantaire _knows_ Enjolras knows. Someone’d brought it up the night of the opening, and they’d both just laughed it off, because they were having fun in the kitchen, trading kisses during equipment handoffs — it felt a lot like their days back in MasterChef, and Enjolras had _loved_ it, loved doing what he loved best next to the person he loved most. 

Grantaire doesn’t wait for Enjolras to answer. “I guess there was some truth to it after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY.
> 
> I'm [here on Tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/), come say hi! :D


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